The Body in the Marsh

by Nick Louth

  ‘Such as?’ Gabby asked.

  ‘Well, changes in mood for a start.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed anything.’

  Gillard hung up. He had to consider the possibility that Liz Knight hadn’t made contact, didn’t intend to come, and was actually a little bit more cold-blooded than he had assumed.

  * * *

  It was ten o’clock that evening when Gillard was called at home. ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  He recognized Sam’s voice. ‘Hello, stranger.’ They exchanged small talk for a few minutes, then Craig said: ‘I’ve still got your Thai curry in the fridge.’

  ‘I hope that’s not true.’ She sighed. ‘Look, you weren’t honest with me, so—’

  ‘I was. Nothing happened. I told you. We went to two plays, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, she felt she could answer your phone and demand to know who I was. That, to me, is an established girlfriend exercising her property rights.’

  ‘Or an arrogant bitch trying it on,’ Gillard replied. ‘So what did you tell her?’

  ‘I said I was a friend. I still regard myself as one, despite everything. Anyway, that’s not why I rang,’ she said. ‘I was asked to help Gabby Underwood babysit Chloe Knight when she was recovering from her overdose. I looked up her profile on Facebook, because it might give some clues about her state of mind which I could tell Gabby, but of course it was private. So I made a friend request, in my personal windsurfing instructor profile, and a couple of days later, when Chloe was well enough to get back on social media, she accepted.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to do that.’

  ‘I know. And you’re not supposed to date witnesses. Anyway, one of Chloe’s new friends is from Colombia, one Allessandra de Cortijo. Cat picture only, unfortunately. I was able to see she is already a friend of both Kathy Parkinson and Helen Jennings. I didn’t dare make a friend request to either of them, as they don’t seem to share much publicly.’

  ‘So you’ve been doing a little bit of investigating on your own, Sam. Without telling me.’

  ‘Craig, to be honest it didn’t start out as investigating. I was trying to help Gabby get an early warning of Chloe’s state of mind. But then I spoke to Shireen, who told me about the Colombian connection and that you now think Liz Knight may be alive.’

  Gillard paused. ‘Sam, what you’ve done is a brilliant, if illicit, piece of investigative work. I’d wager that Chloe and this woman Alessandra have been exchanging private Facebook messages.’

  ‘I’d lay money on it. And they may be planning to meet very soon.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Chloe has just posted about going to spend the Easter weekend in Portugal.’

  ‘What, this weekend?’

  ‘Yep. Flying out on tomorrow morning to Faro. To stay at Helen Jennings’s place in Albufeira.’

  Craig gasped. That coven of Liz’s cronies all seemed to be in on it. And he’d only 12 hours to organize a way to catch her. Good Friday, a nightmare day for any security operation at a busy airport.

  * * *

  Gillard got hold of Rob Townsend at home, and the two of them worked the phones all night to get everything in place. Rob’s checked with all airlines serving Faro, and found a booking for Ms Allessandra de Cortijo from Bogota via Madrid. After changing planes from Avianca to TAP, she would arrive in Faro on Friday morning at eleven. Craig rang Rigby’s home number, and with her backing arranged police liaison teams in both Faro and in Madrid, and a Europol warrant in the Colombian name, as well as updating the existing one for Elizabeth Knight. He woke up DC Shireen Cory-Williams to go to Faro immediately and then follow Chloe herself when she arrived from London. The most protracted effort during the small hours was getting the warrant to Facebook’s London security team to allow them to break into the private online messages shared between Chloe and her Colombian friend Allessandra. Craig had waited as long as he dared for the content of those messages to be released, but in the end had to give up and catch the 7.15 train to Gatwick.

  As he arrived at South Terminal he saw his flight was delayed 90 minutes, putting his own arrival in Madrid half an hour behind the Colombian flight. However, just before boarding he rang his old Spanish police colleague Sargento Primo Irujo, who was already in place at Madrid airport. Irujo told him local security officials were ready to pick up the woman at the arrival gate.

  On arrival in Madrid, Gillard rang Irujo the moment the aircraft engines were turned off. The Spanish officer was slow to answer, and when he did he said the Avianca jet was already disembarking. There was no one on board answering to the name Alessandra de Cortijo.

  ‘Search for her. Check all documents. She must be there,’ Gillard yelled.

  ‘No. The seat booked in Ms de Cortijo’s name was unoccupied, although given that the flight wasn’t full, she could have sat in a number of seats.’ There was a lot of noise in the background, passengers protesting in Spanish, presumably about the delay, and continuous public announcements.

  ‘Keep them there until I arrive!’ Gillard said. His jet was stuck at a remote stand, waiting for steps and a bus to take them to the terminal.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m on the air bridge now, and the security staff are requiring each passenger to show their passport as they leave the aircraft. So far there is no Allessandra de Cortijo and no Elizabeth Knight. But Craig, it would have helped if we had a reliable image of the woman.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but she’s changed her appearance. And I thought I’d be there to check. So are most passengers off the jet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the onboard toilets searched?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Damn!’ Craig was perhaps the only person in Spain who would recognize Liz Knight in any guise, but he was currently trapped in a window seat, blocked in by ungainly passengers removing luggage from overhead lockers. The doors had yet to open. ‘Primo, hold the flight to Faro. Her booking for that leg is also in the de Cortijo name – if she tries to board it, she’ll be caught.’

  Even as he said it, Craig realized that Liz would never do anything that stupid. She always seemed to be a step ahead. Then suddenly he realized. ‘One thing, Primo: you did also check the other identity Rob gave you, didn’t you?’

  ‘What other identity?’

  ‘Mrs Pamela Jones.’

  ‘I know nothing of this Jones. Hold on.’ There was a volley of Spanish, back and forth. ‘There was no Jones booked on the flight, Craig.’

  ‘Of course not. She’s got another fucking passport. Didn’t Rob tell you?’ The call was suddenly cut off, and Craig yelled in frustration. ‘Damn the bitch to hell.’ He just hoped that Rob had spoken to passport control and that they at least would be looking for her under all three possible passport names.

  * * *

  It was 15 minutes before Gillard managed to get into the arrivals hall, to be met by an exasperated Sargento Irujo and two enormous security men in sunglasses and with the usual symbol of authority: trousers tucked into their boots.

  ‘Any luck?’ Craig asked, but could already see from their faces that there wasn’t. He was ushered through a security door into a car which took them from Terminal One to Terminal Four, where the Avianca jet stood connected to an air bridge.

  ‘We have confirmation from Bogota that a woman boarded under the name and passport Alessandra de Cortijo, and we now have a picture from that passport,’ Irujo muttered, as they left the car and climbed the security stairs into the busy terminal. His demeanour clearly showed he was offended from Craig’s earlier shouting at him. ‘Here. Is that her?’ He showed Craig his smartphone, on which was a faint image showing a blonde with big hair, heavy pink eye make-up and blue eyes.

  ‘Maybe,’ Craig responded. ‘With coloured contact lenses.’ There was a vague resemblance to Liz in the shape of the face, but it was a pretty good disguise. ‘What about her checked-in luggage? Did you stop that being checked through to Faro?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ir
ujo spoke to one of the security men, who lumbered off to an office near to the baggage claims. Five minutes later, he returned with a modest-sized turquoise wheeled suitcase. Irujo nodded, and the guard levered it open with a screwdriver. Craig knelt to look through. It was packed with women’s clothing, plus two wigs: one blonde, one mid-brown. And there was a diary.

  ‘This could be vital, once we’ve got her.’ He scanned the crowded hall but couldn’t see Liz anywhere. His gaze lifted again to the balcony, a walkway above them which was part of the transit area, and gave a view over all the carousels. He had a feeling he was being watched.

  ‘I’m sure she’s here somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if so we need something to give the CCTV people,’ Irujo said. ‘Some image of her apart from this.’ He waved his smartphone. ‘They can find her wherever she is in the airport.’

  ‘Okay.’ Craig brandished his smartphone and showed them three pictures: Liz as she was at her 48th birthday party, tired and double-chinned, plus an earlier picture of her with a hat and ice cream at the beach, which was the only one that Oliver Knight had been able to lay hands on at short notice. Finally there was the passport picture of Pamela Jones.

  ‘Mierda! It’s not the same woman.’

  ‘I told you the pictures wouldn’t help as much as you think,’ Craig said. ‘But I’ll email them wherever you need them.’ As he was taking down the details, Irujo took a call on his radio.

  ‘They’ve held a Mrs P. Jones at passport control!’ Irujo looked triumphant. ‘Upstairs.’ He started to move off towards the escalator.

  ‘Hold your horses. What’s the forename? And does the passport number match?’

  Irujo spent the next two minutes in a heated conversation by radio, before turning back to Craig. ‘It’s Paula V. Jones. Travelling in a party of six. The number doesn’t match.’

  Gillard sighed. ‘It’s almost certainly not her, but detain her.’ He finalized the email and hit send, transmitting the pictures to the CCTV control room and the other security officials.

  No sooner had Irujo signed off than his radio again crackled into life again. After listening for a moment he said: ‘A Mrs S. P. Jones has been held from an easyJet flight. Terminal One.’

  ‘I can’t see how she would have been able to get there. She’d have to have gone via passport control,’ Gillard said.

  ‘Craig, tell me: do they hold her or not?’

  ‘Yes. For now.’

  The next call for Irujo came on his smartphone. He answered and listened carefully, before turning to Gillard. ‘A Mrs P. W. Jones has just paid cash for a ticket at the TAP counter in the transit lounge. Joder! Are they breeding these Joneses?’

  ‘It’s a very common British name. And it’s Easter, this place is heaving with Brits,’ he said. ‘Where’s this one going to?’

  ‘Lisbon. Quarter past eleven.’

  ‘That could be it.’ From Lisbon, with a rental car, Liz could be in Albufeira in a couple of hours. ‘Which gate?’ Gillard squinted up at the departure screen above his head and answered his own question: Gate 102. ‘It says the flight is closed. Can you hold it?’

  ‘Yes. But it’s a long way to 102.’

  Craig grabbed one of the security guards and they both set off at a run.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later found DCI Craig Gillard leaning over the balcony, breathless, looking down at a seething mass of people crowding the baggage area of the arrivals hall. He had run a good half-mile to Gate 102, and then jogged back. Mrs Jones, whoever she was, had not boarded, and had checked in no luggage. The milling and restive crowd at the gate, wondering why their flight had been called and was then delayed, did not include anyone who looked like Liz Knight. While he was there, photographs of two detained and rather irate Mrs Joneses had been emailed to him from different parts of the airport. Craig had quickly confirmed that neither of them was Liz Knight. Primo Irujo had gone down to the gate for the Faro flight, but had rung Craig to tell him that no one there matched any of the pictures on his smartphone.

  Now, still a little out of breath and feeling humiliated, he was waiting for the female booking agent at the TAP counter to come back to him so he could get a description of whoever had booked the last-minute ticket to Lisbon. Liz was running rings around them, once again.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Craig, it’s Liz.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Gillard could feel beads of sweat on his palm where he was holding the phone. His head was swimming, trying to figure out where she could be.

  ‘How did you get my number?’

  She laughed. ‘I have my sources.’

  ‘It’s time to give it up, Liz. You can’t escape.’ He could hear airport announcements at her end as well as his own. She must be close by.

  ‘That’s why I’m calling. But don’t try to look for me. I can see you, and if you try to get help, the deal’s off. Just listen, come alone, and I’ll guide you to me. I’ve something to say, then I’ll give myself up. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Craig couldn’t help himself; he looked left and right, but all he could see were crowds of passengers moving along the walkways.

  ‘Turn right along the walkway, keep your eyes to the ground.’

  ‘You can’t hide from this for ever, Liz.’ Craig walked briskly, and took a last glance down to baggage reclaim, where Primo Irujo was briefing more security guys. The view was lost as he emerged into the transit lounge proper.

  ‘Go to the VIP lounge,’ she said.

  Craig saw the lounge, and went in. He explained who he was to the receptionist, and then looked across the crowded room towards the windows. Liz was sitting alone at a small table, reading a magazine, with a glass of wine and an orange juice. Her hair was long, wavy and dark. Not at all like the permed blonde Allessandra de Cortijo. She was wearing a dark blue business suit, a multicoloured silk scarf, and had sunglasses perched on her hair. On seeing him, she waved him over with a smile, as if they were merely two old friends who had run into each other by chance, rather than a harried policeman and a fugitive murderess.

  A call came through to Craig from Primo Irujo, but he turned off the phone and slid it into the pocket of his suit. This was now something he could do alone. As he approached, she stood up to greet him. Her eyes were green, not brown.

  ‘I know you’re going to arrest me, but you can still give me a peck on the cheek.’

  Craig did so, then looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got ten minutes of freedom left.’

  Liz made a moue of disappointment. ‘But I’ve so much to say. And you, Craig, looking well and keeping yourself in good shape, I see.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy and active too. And Martin’s body. That’s an impressive bit of weightlifting…’

  She laughed – the same infectious chuckle he had always loved. ‘I’ve got you an orange juice. I thought you’d be hot after all that running about I made you do.’

  Craig hesitated to pick up the glass, and Liz laughed ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to poison you! I just bought it at the bar. Do you want me to drink some first?’ She reached towards it.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He took a small sip. It tasted fine. ‘We eventually figured out how you did it,’ Craig said. ‘The forensic misdirection, the clever trail that made us think you were Martin in France. And, of course, pirating the identity of Pamela Jones.’

  Liz smiled. ‘That was the key. I spent months offering the Thornton Heath flat cheaply, and got hundreds of tenants applying. I whittled them down to single or widowed women of roughly my age, no kids. The hardest thing was to find someone who didn’t already have a passport, and whose looks I could impersonate.’

  ‘You look a lot different than the real Pamela Jones,’ Gillard said.

  ‘I do now. And I look very different from the Liz Knight who was “murdered”.’

  ‘Absolutely, you are utterly…rejuvenated. That was Prednisol, wasn’t it? Obtained in Romania.’
He took a big pull on the juice.

  ‘Full marks for research,’ she said, approvingly. ‘I made sure there were lots of pictures taken at my birthday party, when I was at my worst,’ she said. ‘I deleted a lot of other recent pictures of me on our family computers that showed me in a better, slimmer form.’

  ‘So whose vertebrae were those in the marsh?’

  ‘Some poor migrant woman from a capsized vessel near Chios who washed up late one evening. She’d obviously been at sea for weeks, and was little more than a skeleton held together by her clothing.’

  ‘Helen had talked about that.’

  ‘That night, I was rostered for mortuary duty with a German woman, Inge. Poor Inge kept dozing off, so I sent her back to her tent and said I would finish the shift alone. That gave me the chance to look into the coffin. I used a pocket knife to separate the spine, which was harder work than I expected, and took 15 minutes. I put the bones into a large plastic food box, packed in salt to destroy the DNA, and hid it amongst my gear. No one checked the body the next day before it was buried. When I got home, I spent weeks marinating the bones in salt water to ensure that no original DNA had survived. I couldn’t afford to take any chances.’

  ‘What about the birthday card to Chloe? Did you forge that?’

  ‘No forgery involved! It was a birthday card Martin wrote two years ago when Chloe had just broken up with a boyfriend. I had reminded him to write it because he would still be away in Finland on the day, but he forgot to post it and I discovered it in his luggage on his return. I thought the message fitted very well. “Sorry I can’t be with you at this difficult time”.’

  Craig shook his head at her ingenuity. ‘Martin’s a hefty fellow. Who helped you carry the body?’